"If he would only knock again, and give me time to think—to think…."
The dark shadow did not move, the fuchsia and the balsamine stood breathless.
Quietly she slipped to the floor and stepped forward doubtfully a pace or two. There was a movement of the shadow; the girl trembled, and caught at the bedpost for support.
The shadow stopped at once, and stood as before, calling her to account.
With eyes cast down, she moved again towards the door—slowly, hesitatingly, as if her heart were willing, but her limbs refused. She could feel the shadow gliding round outside to the doorway. Her heart throbbed as if it would burst; her fingers grasped feverishly at the latch.
Then slowly, silently, the latch was raised; the girl fled to the corner by the stove, and stood there covering her face with her hands.
The door opened, closed again, and the latch was pressed down firmly.
"Where are you, Pansy, little friend? Is it you there in the corner?"
He crossed over to her, and took both her hands in his.
"Hiding your face, and trembling…?" He looked steadily at her.